The name is irrelevant, and such is the paradoxical nature of reality that I am a non born, tentative form, flashing briefly into existence before departing this vale of tears, to all intents and purposes for the rest of eternity.


Yes, really.


And who are you, imagining that you are actually reading this?

Convened in 1950, I am now 58, which is a minor miracle in itself considering the nature of my life thus far. But does it matter? As my friend Danny always asks. And you? How the hell have you got this far?

And here is another question...

How, in a Universe empty of all form and substance, can you hear the constant sound of human voices? And watch the multiple bodies stalking the endless corridors of time? And why will Liverpool fail to win the Premiership for yet another season?

Three essential things
invented by men:

The spire,
The prayer wheel
And the quill pen.


Read more by Lawrence:

The Last Hostel (A short story)

First Love Last (A poem)

The Samaritan (A short story)



Simple cosmic guidance for truth-seekers in a hurry: